Trees have roots, men have legs.

    When I first went to Germany in 2006 I didn't pack very much besides my clothes. I had a notebook where I wrote some loose impressions... it's lost now; I had exactly a pair of books that changed my mind for ever; and few things more. I can remember that I didn't pack anything like shampoo, shower gel, or toothpaste. The first night I used my flat mate's and on the second day I bought those fancy products that I had never heard of: Antischuppen Schauma, blend-a-med for my teeth (although old good Colgate existed as well), whatever. Damn, I loved Germany so much by that time!! A country I didn't know and that I was so eager to discover! Missing my usual toilet stuff was part of it, of letting me go into that strangeness. Why should I carry along such a piece of a homeland?
 
    Now I see with wonder some Erasmus students coming to Barcelona. Many of them (everyone I've met) bring along their creams and brews; hair lotions with odd names, unspeakable languages. I saw this same thing with many foreigners coming to Granada when I was living there. This seems to me like an aseptic travel abroad, don't you break that umbilical cord, don't you blur out into that expanding universe of ours... I know this is not really about that, but it's an impression that I get with such little details. Say I'm silly.
 
    However, I'm not completely rootless as yet. I didn't fucking lost my origins, they call me in the night and they still make me suffer for fucking nothing. For fucking anywhere shall be the same. I still have got some background to fucking give up. That's why I won't pack any shower stuff this time either. As I collect my clothes next Mai, as I jump into that plane. That's why I won't have a drop of nothing to clean my teeth when I arrive to the USA for the first time, and I shall rely on passersby anew. And I shall take those sands from the ground and rub them on my skin if necessary, but I don't fucking want anything from this desperately self centered culture to chase me there. I wanna breath, or discover there isn't any air worth breathing if that turns out to be.

There I go: http://www.santafe.edu/

Three nazi tales: II, The Facebook

As recently as two weeks ago I came across an article at a Spanish newspaper (in Spanish) written by a well known spanish polemist (this site is unluckily also in Spanish, though there is a non-working British flag in the upper left which should allow one to change the language); a regular one of the neoconservative, pan-nationalcatholic TV-channel intereconomía. The author was disappointed that no official tribute is payed to the blue division anymore.

The blue division consisted of spaniards which voluntarily enrolled to fight WW2 as part of the nazi army. This broadly makes them nazis from my point of view. Most of them came from franco's army, which broadly makes them fascists for me. I'd even say that there isn't any difference in here. More about the blue division can be found in the wikipedia, I was delaying the link on purpose to have you read my opinion first.

As members of the nazi army they fought the Russian campaign. Serving the nazi army. The polemist claims that they fought with real courage and honor, and that this makes a great score. He also remarks as merits of the blue division that they could once have raped a russian girl, but they didn't though they had a clear chance and big urge to do so.

franco's children. So far so good.

I read this article through one of my facebook contacts: a young boy once actively involved in the recent #spanishrevolution which demands more democracy among other stuff. He was in full agreement with the polemist. He argues that what really matters is that "they died for their ideals, whatever they were"; that they gave everything for nothing --quite a pity, I shall guess...--; and that all of this makes them "the last great heroes of this country" (this last in capitals, which I refuse to reproduce in here).

A cold opinion in the internet, sharp as the side view of the letters I write right now. Words of my generation. A reminder that time is cyclic, that we've already been in this planet for a while and history is exhausted, and that we have no other fate than playing it over and over again as the fractal piece of a rusty pianola.